


Shades of Truth

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Pre-Slash, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: In a world where soulmates can't lie to one another, Harry freezes up when he tries to give an excuse for his missing homework to Quirrellmort.





	Shades of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the ambiguous/open ending tag! I wrote this as a what if type of AU and don't have any plans to continue it.
> 
> Backdated to its original posting date.

“He’s going to take points,” Harry groaned as he and Ron hurried toward the Defense classroom. The hallways around them were empty of students, everyone either still in bed at this early hour or already in class. Harry would’ve felt better seeing at least one more student running to class, but it was only him and Ron as the idiots who’d overslept. “It’s January, we can’t use the got lost in the castle excuse. And what are we going to say about our homework?”

“I got lost in the dungeons just last week!” Ron said, yanking on Harry’s cloak to hurry him along.

Harry pushed him off; it wasn’t Harry’s fault that Ron was so tall and had a longer stride. “But on the second floor? Where most of our classrooms are?”

“Then we tell him we got held up by Peeves.” Ron’s mood perked up at the easily available excuse. “He, uh, threatened to shoot dungbombs at us and we were trying to avoid smelling bad in the classroom!”

Harry quickened his pace when the door they were after finally came into sight. “And Peeves stole our homework? It’s too convenient. But maybe Quirrell won’t even notice.”

“Yeah, or maybe he won’t even care!”

He and Ron shared a look. It wasn’t likely, but stranger things had happened at Hogwarts. Hypothetically, Quirrell might care more about showering in garlic or researching vampires to one day take revenge on them than two students who were late and empty-handed. For the twentieth time that morning, Harry wished he and Ron had just done their DADA homework with Hermione. But no, they’d wanted to play another game of chess, then another, then another…

They stopped outside the door for a few moments to catch their breath, then Harry opened the door. It opened with a creak that drew nearly every student’s eyes toward them. Harry tried not to cringe. He was used to being gawked at, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Ron started talking immediately after Quirrell turned from writing something on the blackboard. Quirrell’s dark eyes found Harry’s first before turning his attention toward Ron. The smell of garlic was always overpowering when Harry entered the classroom, though after a while Harry would get used to it. But the worst part was the low-grade headache that he always got in Quirrell’s classroom. It made it hard to concentrate, even when Harry really should.

“…and that’s when the Bloody Baron came through the ceiling and Peeves shrieked and ran off and we were finally free. We tried to save our homework from the water, but it was no use,” Ron finished explaining.

Harry couldn’t tell if Quirrell believed him; Quirrell’s expression was his usual pale, slightly anxious one. “M-mister Potter? Is th-that t-true?”

_Yes,_ Harry wanted to say. _Yes, that’s true, that’s exactly what happened._ He knew the words, but his mouth refused to say them. It wasn’t fear of being caught out or guilt for lying that kept his mouth closed, but a magic far older than anything Harry had encountered since arriving at Hogwarts. It was the magic of souls, and there was only one person on the planet who Harry couldn’t speak a lie to: his soulmate.

His soulmate, who was… Quirrell? Professor Quirrell? Harry didn’t even know the man’s _first name_. They couldn’t be soulmates. They just couldn’t.

“M-mister Potter?”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said, staring down at his sneakers. He didn’t know what else to say, even though the truth wasn’t horrible. He and Ron had just overslept after a long night of playing chess next to a jar of Hermione’s blue lights and had forgotten about their homework.

Quirrell said nothing for a long moment, maybe to try to see if Harry would confess, but eventually he said, “T-two points from Gryffindor. T-turn in y-your homework next c-class.”

“Yes, sir,” he and Ron said nearly at the same time. As they took their seats, Ron whispered, “What was that?”

Harry just shook his head and pretended to listen to Quirrell’s lecture. Throughout the rest of the class period, Harry peered at Quirrell from his desk. He had to stretch to see the professor from the back row, with Crabbe’s huge back two rows ahead of him blocking most of his view, and every glimpse of his professor sent Harry’s head dipping down again in embarrassment.

_It could be worse,_ Harry told himself. _It could be Snape._ He could just imagine the hate Snape would’ve spewed at him had he been tied to Harry for the rest of their lives. Harry was pretty sure Snape would’ve offed himself just to get out of it—or just Harry. Maybe he would’ve cut him up for potions ingredients first. _One eye of soulmate, coming right up!_

With that hysterical thought, Harry lowered his head to rest on his parchment and had to actively keep himself from knocking his head against the desk. It wasn’t as though he’d long had dreams of finding his soulmate. Hell, he hadn’t realized soulmates were real until Hagrid had explained things to him—and until Hermione had explained things more clearly than Hagrid’s meandering explanation. There was more fiction than fact out there about soulmates, but one thing that was known was that soulmates couldn’t lie to each other. It was just that when Harry had thought soulmate, he’d thought of a nice girl or boy around his age, not his professor.

Harry hurried up once the bell rang, stuffing his textbook and papers into his bag. Beside him, Ron did the same, while Hermione went to the front of the room to ask Quirrell some questions about the class material.

“You have ink on your forehead,” Ron said, handing Harry a sheet of parchment in lieu of a handkerchief. “I don’t care, but you know McGonagall will.”

Harry dabbed at his forehead. “Better?”

“Not much. Bathroom?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, still sounding more morose than he meant to.

They walked in silence to the bathrooms, where Ron glanced under the stalls to make sure they were alone before he finally asked, “Do you, uh, want to talk about it?”

“No,” Harry said, forcefully yanking at the sink handle and then at the soap knob. The ink had gotten into a few locks of his hair, though the color hadn’t changed much. But the worst of it was in his scar, leaving it both puffy and red as it always got in Quirrell’s classes—Harry blamed all the garlic, he was probably allergic—and inky black in the center.

“Okay.” Ron leaned against the sink next to Harry’s and shuffled around in his bookbag, from where he pulled out two napkin-wrapped croissants from their fast dash to the great hall before trying to make it to DADA on time. “Food?”

Harry scowled at his reflection and dried his hands. His rubbing had irritated his scar even more, but there was nothing to do about that. If he went to Madam Pomfrey, she would just fuss at him and give him an oily gel that wouldn’t help any. His scar resisted any and all attempts at being changed. It was as stubborn as Harry himself, which Harry frankly did not appreciate. He accepted the croissant from Ron and ate half of it in one bite. However Hogwarts made its food, it was always amazing. This time, there was even ham inside the croissant.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Harry told Ron.

Ron nodded quickly. “No one at all. Wait, is that including Hermione?”

“No, I’ll tell her later when we see her.” His other best friend would probably somehow find out even if Harry didn’t tell her. Hermione was very good at uncovering things, from his and Ron’s midnight duel to the parts of textbooks they needed to complete a homework assignment. “That I couldn’t lie to Professor Quirrell.”

“You couldn’t…” Ron trailed off, his blue eyes wide and his mouth stopped mid-chew. “You weren’t just nervous?”

Harry shook his head.

“Mate,” Ron said, and stopped.

“I know.”

Ron took another moment to stare at Harry, then managed to say, “At least it isn’t Snape? Right?”

Harry gave him a look that he hoped encompassed everything he was feeling. It probably just came off constipated.

Ron patted him on the shoulder. “He’s not ugly. For a bloke. He’s actually pretty young. I don’t think he’s even as old as Snape.”

“He smells like garlic and is bad at teaching,” Harry moped.

“You could ask him to stop using so much. And hey, maybe since you’re his soulmate, he won’t assign you any homework!” That seemed to cheer Ron up. “If so, ask him to do the same for me, yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” Harry said, with a huff of laughter despite himself. This was just so weird.

When the bell rang, he and Ron jumped up, crammed down the rest of their croissants, and ran out the door and through the halls. They managed to arrive to the Transfiguration classroom only two minutes after the bell—damn those moving staircases—but McGonagall still took points off. While Ron explained to Hermione that they’d had something very important to do and bemoaned the further loss of points, Harry continued thinking about Ron’s words. Not about cheating on assignments, since Hermione would never forgive him if she ever found out, not to mention it would make Harry feel too much like Dudley to rely on other people that way. But soulmate pairs were considered special as far as the magical world was concerned. In a world where less than a fifth of the population actually met their soulmate, soulmates were lucky and treasured. They were able to use each other’s wands and increase the power of each other’s spells when dueling against other people together. And, Harry thought as he tapped his quill against his notes, there were certain legal protections for soulmates. He’d ignored that part of Hermione’s lecture when she’d realized how little he’d known about soulmates, but now Harry wondered.

Harry rushed out of the classroom as soon as the bells began, hurrying toward the library with an eagerness he’d never felt for that part of Hogwarts, not even when he and his friends had been searching for information on Nicholas Flamel. Within twenty minutes, Harry was hidden away in one of the deepest crannies of the library, not wanting anyone to see the stacks of books about soulmates next to him. The gossip would be never-ending. Harry shuddered to think about it getting out that his soulmate was a _professor_. Even if Quirrell wasn’t as mean as Snape or as strict as McGonagall or as ancient as Dumbledore, he still wasn’t an eleven year old student.

Ron and Hermione found him pouring over the books, his back hunched as he tried to find what he was looking for.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, taking a seat.

“Quirrell’s my soulmate,” Harry said. It wasn’t much easier to say the second time, but now that he had something to focus on, Harry could put the shock behind himself. “I’m looking for what happens when you’re underage but want to move in with your soulmate. It’s got to have come up before.”

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, opened it. “Harry… is there something you want to tell us about your family?”

“I don’t want to go back,” Harry said, simply, even if it wasn’t simple at all. The Dursleys had been such a horrible fixture of his life for all of Harry’s memory (except for his faint memories of the Halloween night, and those weren’t any better). The thought of legally being able to get away from them was both terrifying and exhilarating. Until now, there hadn’t been anywhere for him to go except back to the Dursleys, who were blood family even if they didn’t treat him like one of their own. His friends’ parents didn’t need another kid around, not to mention Ron’s parents wouldn’t be able to afford it and Hermione’s had never met him. “Ever.”

“But what if Quirrell is worse than them?” Ron asked. “What if he’s secretly mean? Makes you do all the chores in his house?”

“Still better than the Dursleys,” Harry instantly said. There were more words stuck in his throat, but Harry couldn’t get them out. It wasn’t magic holding him back, but a habit that was bone-deep. (He’s just a liar and a delinquent, Mrs. Wilson, our Dudley wouldn’t hurt a fly.) (Oh, he just likes gardening too much. We keep telling him to wear gloves and keep out of the sun.) (Tell the doctor it was a schoolyard brawl.) (Freak.) Harry had never talked about it; he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know how to say that he’d rather rely on the fact that soulmates couldn’t hurt each other without magic interfering than stay with the Dursleys one more day. “Just help me, please.”

“If it’s that important, of course I’ll help,” Hermione said, picking up one of the books. “But you know you can tell us, right?”

Harry nodded. “Later?”

“Holding you to that,” Ron told him. With only a faint grimace, he also grabbed a book.

By the end of their research session, Harry was reasonably certain that Quirrell could get custody of him if the Dursleys didn’t protest. Legally, Harry wouldn’t even have to alert the ministry of his change in guardianship; since soulmates had such a solid bond and weren’t able to harm each other without magical consequences, the ministry already considered soulmates as each other’s next of kin unless otherwise stated. All Harry had to do was convince Quirrell to let Harry stay with him during the summers. Which… they were soulmates. Wouldn’t Quirrell have to care? At least a little? And he was a teacher. You didn’t go into teaching if you didn’t care about children’s wellbeing, right? Harry didn’t like thinking of himself as a child, but he’d take anything to get out of the Dursleys’ clutches.

Harry followed his friends to dinner, his head filled with too many thoughts. It was all he could do to keep himself from glancing at Quirrell every other second. Harry barely kept it down to once a minute. Ron and Hermione explained it to the other first years as Harry being embarrassed about earlier, which only reminded Harry that Quirrell thought of him as a tardy, incompetent first year. His practical marks were good, but Harry wasn’t under the delusion that his written work was anywhere near Hermione’s level. After dinner, Quirrell vanished before Harry could even stand up from the Gryffindor table. Hermione improvised by coming up to Professor McGonagall to ask after the location of Quirrell’s office on account of having questions about the homework.

“Second floor, southwest corridor, the one that starts from next to the tapestry of Billium Beastly being chased out of the Black Lake by grindylows and mermen.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said. The three of them lingered in the great hall until the crowd of leaving students passed, then headed toward the staircase that would lead them to the second floor.

“You sure you want to do this?” Ron asked, still looking doubtful. Not of the fact that Quirrell would want to take Harry in—Ron had grown up with soulmates caring for each other being all but a fact the universe revolved around—but that Harry would want to live with a boring professor.

“I’m sure,” Harry replied. “He’s the best option I’ve got.”

“I could ask my parents if you could stay with us,” Hermione offered, but even she looked unsure about the chances of her parents saying yes.

Harry shrugged. “Magic made us soulmates, right? So that means he has to be alright.”

With that, Harry headed down the second floor while his friends returned to the Gryffindor tower. Harry found himself dawdling, walking slower and slower as he approached the door that had to lead to Quirrell’s office. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to do this; Harry did, and desperately, too. It was just that he couldn’t imagine his luck being so good that Quirrell would just say yes. If only students were allowed to stay at Hogwarts over summer breaks too…

One deep breath, and then Harry brought his hand up to knock on the office door. When no one answered, he knocked again, then again. Harry realized that it was possible that Quirrell had gone back to his quarters after dinner instead, and he doubted McGonagall would give him the location of those very easily. He could of course try again tomorrow, but Harry was filled with dread at spending a whole night sleepless and anxious about what Quirrell would say. No, he needed to know today.

Harry knocked again, and finally he heard a, “C-come in,” from inside the office.

The first thing that hit Harry was relief that Quirrell’s office didn’t smell like a garlic factory. Maybe Quirrell was only worried about vampire attacks in public places, because Harry only saw a few stakes hanging on the walls instead of the rest of Quirrell’s anti-vampire gear. The office resembled McGonagall’s in composition if not decoration: there was a large desk for Quirrell to sit behind and two chairs in front of the desk for students to be reprimanded in. One wall, however was covered from top to bottom with bookshelves filled with dusty old books, while the other walls bore huge tapestries of vampires turning and killing humans. A part of Harry couldn’t look away from the scenes, while the rest of him felt disquieted at having to see someone get brutally murdered from the corner of his eye the entire time he was here.

“Th-this is n-not a g-good t-time for me, Mr. P-potter,” Quirrell said from behind the desk.

“Sorry, professor, but it’s important,” Harry said, closing the door behind himself and sitting down in one of the chairs across from Quirrell’s desk.

Quirrell gave him a look as close to irritated that Harry had ever seen on him. “If th-this is about p-points, I w-won’t take th-them back.”

“It’s not that.”

“Th-then w-what is it?”

Harry shifted in his seat a little. He looked over Quirrell’s features and tried to see himself liking this man who was his soulmate, but he couldn’t do it. Quirrell was odd. He didn’t have the distinctly comforting air of Madam Pomfrey or the warmth of Professor Flitwick or the impartial sternness of Professor McGonagall. Sometimes, it felt like the last thing he wanted to be doing was teaching. Harry assumed it was because of the professor’s trauma of the vampire attack or maybe his stutter. Quirrell didn’t try to endear himself to his students, either. He rarely gave any points or even asked his students questions. They were simply expected to arrive on time, hand in their homework, and leave. Up until today, this had suited Harry just fine.

“It’s not about points, but it _is_ about what happened earlier today,” Harry began, because he didn’t have to like Quirrell. Liking Quirrell could be a job for his future self, maybe when he was as old as Quirrell. Right now, Harry just needed something from him. “I couldn’t lie to you about my homework.”

“You c-couldn’t lie t-to me,” Quirrell said, aghast. “Th-this is n-no time for j-jokes.”

“I’m not joking. Or lying,” Harry retorted. He wouldn’t lie about this (and honestly, if he were going to lie about soulmates, Quirrell wouldn’t be his first choice or on the list at all). “See for yourself, professor.”

Quirrell’s eyes were dark and piercing as he opened his mouth. No words came out.

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. There it was: confirmation that Quirrell couldn’t lie to him, either. They really were soulmates. Harry wasn’t a romantic at heart, but he’d thought he’d feel more than confusion when he found his soulmate. It still just didn’t feel real.

“This is incredibly unexpected—” Quirrell broke off, then added in a thoughtful tone, “But it shouldn’t be, should it?”

“It should?” Harry asked, confused. Had there been another sign of them being soulmates? It was said that a soulmate’s touch had a certain thrum of energy to it, but he couldn’t remember ever having touched Quirrell. They hadn’t even shaken hands when Hagrid had introduced them at the Leaky Cauldron.

“To me, it should have been. It explains much,” Quirrell said, though he didn’t go on. “Why did you decide to tell me, Mr. Potter?”

Even Quirrell didn’t seem to think Harry was very excited about this. Maybe Harry should’ve tried to pretend, but he couldn’t even say _you’re a good professor_ without magic calling him out on his lie, let alone _I like you_ or _I’m happy about this_. Harry blurted out, “I want you to take me in for the summers until I turn seventeen, please. I looked it up and I know that as my soulmate, you can do it. I’ll be good, and I don’t take up much space, and when I’m older, I can help you with magic in return.”

“Tell me why,” Quirrell said.

And just like before, Harry couldn’t. He didn’t know how to swallow down his pride even more than he already was, how to explain the Dursleys in a way that would make Quirrell believe him.

Quirrell evaluated him for a long moment, then drew his wand. “Bring any memories you wish for me to see to the front of your mind.”

“Wizards can do that?” Harry asked, eyes wide.

“Yes. Are you ready?”

It was easier to just call up his memories than to put them into words, even if it was less brave of him. But in this one thing, Harry didn’t know how to be a Gryffindor. He chose the memories at random. Himself, trying to do his homework through the faint light coming through the crack under his cupboard door. Aunt Petunia, saying that Dudley was a growing boy while handing Harry a piece of bread with some old jam spread across it, expecting it to last him the day. Dudley, when Harry couldn’t run away fast enough. Uncle Vernon… being Uncle Vernon, and there were too many memories to choose from. Hagrid, giving Dudley a tail and Harry’s worry that the Dursleys hadn’t forgiven nor forgotten.

“Yes,” Harry said, and watched the swish of Quirrell’s wand. A mist seeped out of Harry’s head and into Quirrell’s wand. When it was over, Harry poked at the memories like he would a loose tooth. Whatever Quirrell had done, it hadn’t removed the memories from his head, nor dulled them. Harry was alright with that; they were his memories, bad as they were. He didn’t want to not remember the Dursleys horribleness. He just wanted to not go back. “What is that spell?”

“A cross between a pensieve and Legilimency,” Quirrell said, but his voice sounded far away. His eyes had gone misty and he was staring into the air rather than at Harry. “A more complete transfer of memories results… Unfortunately, one has to be completely willing for the spell to work.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what the other two things Quirrell mentioned were, but it didn’t seem as important as the fact that Quirrell was going through his memories right now.

A few moments later, Quirrell blinked twice and met Harry’s eyes again, his expression grave. “I see. If that is how you have spent the past decade, your eagerness is understandable, if still foolish. You know nothing about me.”

“I know you can’t hurt me without consequences,” Harry said, mulishly. “That’s better than the Dursleys. They’ve never had a single consequence in their lives.”

“No, I suppose not,” Quirrell said. He leaned back and evaluated Harry thoughtfully. “You would do much to be away from them, so here is my offer: you will never have to see them again if you transfer to Durmstrang, which allows students to make use of their facilities during all school breaks.”

Harry mind raced as though on a broomstick. Of all the possibilities he’d considered, his soulmate sending him away to boarding school wasn’t something he’d considered. “Is it because you teach here? A conflict of, um, that muggle term.”

“Conflict of interest,” Quirrell filled in with a look of distaste. “No, I do not plan to continue teaching here after the end of this school year.” He paused for a moment, the look in his eyes so sharp that it felt as though Quirrell could see through to his very soul. “But you are my soulmate, and I do not take that lightly. Your soul is tied to mine; until you grow to be able to defend yourself, you are a liability to me, and I cannot have that in a country on the brink of war.”

“There’s no war anymore,” Harry murmured, but that wasn’t going to be true for long. He, Ron, and Hermione had uncovered the fact that Snape was trying to steal the philosopher’s stone. Harry was positive that Snape was trying to do it for that cloaked figure he and Ron had run from in the forbidden forest. “It’s Voldemort, isn’t?”

“Death could hardly stop him,” Quirrell said with an air of something that gave Harry shivers. “Voldemort will return. You are too young to remember the first war, but I do. It was chaos, madness, offensive magic saturating the very air of Diagon Alley. Until he gets what he wants, he will not leave the wizarding world alone.”

“Or me,” Harry added, glancing down at his hands.

“Durmstrang is far removed from British politics. You may enter under an assumed name or your own, you’ll be secure either way. The headmaster and several of the professors will keep an eye on you while you’re there. It won’t be safe for you to stay here in Britain.”

“You’d do all that for me?”

“There is very much I would do to keep you secure,” Quirrell said, though his words caused Harry to shiver. It sounded as though Quirrell might’ve wanted to keep him secure by sticking him in a fairytale tower. Quirrell’s lips quirked upward in something that wasn’t much of a smile. “You’ve already encountered a troll here at Hogwarts. I assure you, Lord Voldemort will be much worse upon his true return.”

“You’re looking forward to it,” Harry realized. “You’re— you’re a dark wizard.”

“One of many,” Quirrell agreed. “Does it surprise you, that your soulmate isn’t good or light?”

Harry wanted to say yes, but the words stopped at his lips. He couldn’t tell if it was magic or if he just knew himself too well. Harry knew the deepest, darkest parts of his mind, the parts that hated the Dursleys so fiercely that it scared him sometimes. When it came to some people, Harry wasn’t good or light, either.

“I don’t know. Maybe not,” Harry said, swallowing. “Do you really think I’d be safe in Durmstrang? From Voldemort, too?”

Quirrell’s eyes gleamed. Under this light, they almost looked red, like the eyes of the vampires in the tapestries. “I’ll make sure of it. Think on it, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded. Quirrell had given him so much to think about. But… “Harry. If we’re soulmates, then you have to call me Harry.”

“Harry,” Quirrell agreed. “I want your answer by the end of the week.”

“You don’t think it’s cowardly of me to just leave?” Harry blurted out.

“You were born into this war,” Quirrell said, standing up and walking around his desk. Harry stiffened as the man brushed Harry’s bangs from his forehead to reveal his scar. “But we are not what we were born to be, Harry. Take advantage of my offer. Learn, grow. And perhaps one day, you’ll stand at my side.”

Quirrell’s words didn’t fill Harry with much confidence, but soon enough Harry was on his way back to Gryffindor tower, wondering at how quickly his possibilities had spun out of control. He loved Hogwarts; that much was true. It was a beautiful, magical place. It was also one where he’d almost been killed twice, and Harry had a feeling that when Voldemort returned, that man might hold a grudge against the way Harry had defeated him as a baby.

If Quirrell had already began planning for the future, then Harry would too. Maybe his plans weren’t as grandiose as the plans Quirrell had for being on the dark side of the war, but Harry was just as determined to see them through.

And best of all, he’d never have to see the Dursleys again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Please note the ambiguous/open ending tag! I wrote this as a what if type of AU and don't have any plans to continue it.


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